


Computer Candy Kisses

by Corycides



Category: Bones, Criminal Minds
Genre: F/F, Porn Battle Amnesty Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharing space with the BAU team was...interesting. Angela even gave the word a merry little up-lilt in her mind. Interesting! What she meant was odd, awkward, pokey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Computer Candy Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle Amnesty Prompt. Prompts from PB#14

Sharing space with the BAU team was...interesting. Angela even gave the word a merry little up-lilt in her mind. Interesting! What she meant was odd, awkward, pokey. 

 

No-one was comfortable with the lanky spaniel genius Agent Reid. It wasn’t his fault. It was just...he was just how Angela had imagined Zack would grow into his skin. Into that big, sweet brain. Agent Rossi and Tempe were in a quiet, polite (or Rossi’s part at least) Cold War over book sales, and Agent Hotchner was just…

 

Un settling. Quiet, soft-spoken, kind and  un settling. 

 

JJ and that long streak of pretty muscle that was Agent Morgan were easy on the eye, at least. No whimsy in  him  though. Not a nanogram of it. Just FBI starch and standards. Or that’s what Angela  thought.

 

‘Hey there, baby girl,’ he drawled, in a voice that was all honey and jalapenos. ‘Looking fine.’   
  


‘Don’t you Baby-girl me,’ a woman said, voice wobbling with stress. ‘I don’t do crime scenes, I do desks and monitors and - oh my God! what’s that?’

 

It was Tempe who answered, of course. ‘That is a box of corpse beetles to deflesh the corpse without damaging the bones.’

 

The woman’s voice went small and wobbly with stress. ‘You have a box of flesh-beetles. I have beanie babies, you have a box of beetles.’

 

After years of being Tempe’s best friend - for a long time, her only friend - Angela could recognise her cue. She backed up her work with a quick jab of her finger, and ducked out to provide some much needed social balm.

 

Angela was a modern, independent woman who didn’t judge other women by their clothes, sexuality, caste or creed...but ‘yowcha’. The curvy blonde woman in the kitten heels and corset looked like a 1920s starlet from the silver screen, all vintage glamour and confident sexuality.

 

So, yeah, yowcha. 

 

‘Um, hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Angela...’

 

The woman spun on her heel and the nervy, frettiness dropped away, a smile curving glossy, bright red lips. ‘Montenegro!’ she said, hurrying forwards with her hand thrust out. ‘Your real-time graphic stimulator has changed the course of forensic reconstruction!’

 

Angela blinked and smiled - probably goofily. ‘Thank you! I try.’

 

What? She blinked and tried to pull herself together. ‘I mean, are you an artist? I’m sorry, I don’t-’

 

‘Oh, no. I’m just a technical analyst,’ the woman said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes crinkling. She patted her bag, which Angela finally registered as the sort of heavy-duty, battered messenger case that hard-core programmers used. ‘Penelope Garcia.’

 

Morgan had discreetly moved between Penelope and the case of beetles. ‘Baby girl, why don’t you and Angela go and look at the laptop? Nothing we need you to do here.’

 

‘Yes,’ Angela said. She ignored Tempe’s squinted look and smiled at Penelope, taking her arm helpfully. ‘I can show you the Angelatron, as well. I’ve been making some improvements.’

 

It turned out that Technical Analyst was FBI shorthand for white-hat hacker who can make the internet sit up and beg for scraps. She’d hooked up three screens to her laptop and attached fuzzy pink, green and blue pompom critters along the top with ritualistic care. Her fingers tap tapped over the keys, picking her way through the layers of security the killer had thought was impenetrable, while she chatted away to Angela about Michael-Vincent and truffle making and anything but the terrible, sad things she winkled out of the laptop shell.

____________________

‘She  knits,’  Angela groaned, her voice muffled by the pillow she’d buried her face in. ‘Did you know my ideal woman is one that knits?’

 

‘No,’ Hodgins said. He sounded like he was laughing at her, but the warm, wiry weight of him against her side was comforting. Those clever, genius fingers of his stroked her side, bumping over her ribs. ‘I didn’t.’

 

She lifted her head and gave him a reproachful look. ‘Neither did I until today! But apparently, I’m a sucker for a woman who knits.’

 

He had the good grace not to smile at her. ‘Are you going to leave me?’

 

‘No!’ she said, sitting up abruptly. She caught his face in her hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. ‘Never.’

 

He turned his head, beard tickling her palm, and kissed her wrist. ‘So it’s a crush. That’s ok. We’re married, Angie, not dead.’

 

Then he pulled her back down and proved how very not dead they were. 

______________________

 

It was raining when they closed the case and unearthed all those sad little bodies. The mud caked their bones and Angela wanted to wipe it off, to spit on a handkerchief and wipe them clean like a baby’s cheek. She didn’t, of course. It would have contaminated the crime scene.

 

She was fine. She did every that she needed, reassured everyone that was worried and retreated back to the world of alae, dentition and nasal bones. They’d only been children, they deserved faces. How could they haunt her nightmares if they had no faces?

 

Victim five. Victim six. Victim…

 

‘Angela, stop it.’ Penelope hugs were soft, warm and smelt of Black Phoenix Alchemy. ‘It doesn’t help. It can’t.’

 

Fingers going still, Angela hunched over into the embrace. ‘What does?’

 

There was a pause and then Penelope said, ‘Beanie babies. Real babies. Kittens and monkeys and lizards riding frogs.’

 

Angela laughed, wet and choked. ‘I think this might be beyond even Cute Overload, Penelope.’ She took a ragged breath and straightened up, wiping the make-up from under her eyes with her fingertips. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to...I thought I’d  dealt with this.’

 

‘They’re children,’ Penelope said, her voice tired and injured. ‘That’s always hard, and we thought they could be alive. That’s harder.’

 

Now the toys and chatter and determined refusal to look when she didn’t have to made sense. How many times had Penelope done with her computers what Angela was trying to do with her’s - rebuilding their faces from internet histories and social media instead of bones and eye sockets?

 

So Angela kissed her. Sticky red lipstick and candy sugar sweetness, surprise catching Angela’s breath and tugging it into Penelope’s mouth. Her hands slid down Penelope’s sides, feeling the stiff boning under the cherry-print shirt and imagining the faint lines creased in pale flesh.

 

Her Dad would tease her about that, she thought in an absent part of her brain. First, Hodgins and now Penelope. Since when was her type nerd-pale squints (who knit?)

 

Just before she stopped and apologised, Penelope caught her hips in neat, practical hands and pulled her closer. Her breasts were soft and she kissed, once she’d stopped  being  kissed and made it collaborative, with the same giddy enthusiasm that she talked about kittens. Once Angela was close enough for her liking, Penelope’s hands slid down to cup her ass.

 

Just from a kiss - although since when was any kiss,  just  a kiss? - Angela could tell they would be sweet together. The sort of sweet that was laughter and tea, as well as sweat and orgasms. Long days naked in bed, longer ones working together on projects - rewarding clever with kisses.

 

Penelope was the one who broke the kiss. Maybe. Or it could have been Angela. One of them had to be the first.

 

‘I’m married,’ Angela said.

 

‘You’re married,’ Penelope said. ‘I have a boyfriend. If you weren’t...’

 

‘If you didn’t...’

 

Penelope laughed, her lips kiss-bare of her sticky red lipstick. Which meant, Angela supposed, that she was wearing most of it. She blotted her lips on her palm.

 

‘But you are,’ Penelope said, ‘And I do. So we won’t, but thank you.’

 

Angela cupped the curve of Penelope’s face in her hand, so different to Hodgins bony, poet lines. Not under it though. They shared that quick, gleeful intelligence, that rebellious independence of thought that could be sublime and ridiculous at once.

 

If… If a lot of things were different, but they weren’t.

 

‘Thank you, too,’ she said.

  
Later, after Penelope had left and Tempe had reluctantly admitted that Rossi’s books were actually quite compelling, Angela received a beanie puppy in the mail. It took up residence on top of the Angelatron.


End file.
